


Guardian Devil

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Internal Monologue, M/M, Monologue, Murder, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mikhail’s traveling companion, a strange, bespectacled, man with a white cloak that concealed his whole form and trailed in the dust behind him but somehow never got the hem dirty, mystified him. The staff he held that was always able to heal Mikhail’s wounds, no matter how many there were, more so.Mikhail is better off not finding out what exactly his companion, who asks to go by the name “Medic”, is. Or why he always keeps his cloak on.





	Guardian Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Mistakes were made

    The snow crunched under Mikhail’s boots as he trekked slowly through the forest to where his mother lived, his eerily light-footed companion not far behind. Sometimes it seemed as if Medic didn’t even leave footprints, he was so quiet. Unusual.

 

    “Will we be there soon, my friend?” Medic asked, a hand sneaking out from where the cloak split to push his glasses up. “It will be night soon, and you know how I hate to be caught in the cold  _ and _ the dark,” he chuckled, the hand disappearing as quickly as it had come. Mikhail had spent many a night wondering about the unnaturally large and smooth digits of the fingers; even a nobleman should have had some calluses or blisters if they had spent enough time in the woods for the Fae to whisper magic in his ears and lace power through his blood. 

    “We are later than expected,” the words fell heavy out of Mikhail’s mouth. God, he hated how stupid he sounded in Common. “Night may come before we arrive.” 

 

    Under his breath, Medic muttered a swear and began to complain. “Of course. Nothing ever works out when we travel together, does it?” He smiled bitterly, the eyebrows folded low over the face, and for a moment a view of the void flashed into Medic’s eyes. Mikhail had seen it all before, though, and refused to let it unnerve him. “Do you think we will be travelling through the night, or will we stop?”

 

    “Is too far to travel through night; will be sluggish as babies tomorrow.” Mikhail beat back some of the gnarled branches like hands snatching at his face and adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “You will summon tents again,  да?”

 

    “Yes, I do believe I will.”

 

    Travelling with a magic user had its perks, and one of them happened to be that Mikhail never had to carry a pack. Upon first meeting Mikhail, Medic had said something about a void that he could access and that Mikhail would never be cold again. At the time, he hadn’t spoken Common well enough to understand most of what Medic was saying, but he got the gist: The Fae favored his companion that he had found at random in a… rather sketchy, now that he stopped and thought about it… tavern. Could one have hoped for a more perfect stroke of luck? The only term Medic had made him agree to after they talked and discovered that they got along rather well was that he’d never peek under Medic’s cloak. And that was just fine with him. It wasn’t as if he fantasized about what Medic might look like under the simple sheath.

 

    Just by looking at him, Mikhail could tell that Medic was tall and broad-shouldered. The way the fabric hung from the shoulders and how Medic moved told Mikhail that much. Muscular as well, as he’d seen him drag dead men for miles. Maybe it was all lean, and the strength evident could only be felt while running one’s hands over bare flesh. Or perhaps, he was cut like a marble statue made by the old masters. Somehow he doubted that second one. And yet, Mikhail kept thinking. He wore nothing underneath the cloak. Undoing the delicate tie at the neck, Medic would cast a fine silhouette from the fire roaring behind him. He felt no shame, even without fabric to hide his form beneath. He’d slowly walk towards Mikhail, a devilish little smirk on his lips, and even though he wasn’t a small man, he’d have to stand on the tips of his toes to-

 

    Mikhail stopped himself before he could get himself all hot and bothered. Disgusting. He was standing right next to Medic, a man he considered a fire-forged friend, and yet he would let his thoughts run rampant like this? The sun hung low in the sky at last, getting cozy in the space between two mountains on the horizon. “Now is a good time to stop,” he announced, though there was only one who could hear. Medic appeared to have been lost in thoughts of his own, and jumped when Misha spoke. Frazzled, he fixed his now-crooked glasses and calmed himself with the gesture.

 

    “Shall I get us set up?” Without waiting for an answer, Medic murmured something below his breath that sounded like nonsense strung together. Mikhail had no room to judge the speech too harshly as two tents appeared where previously there was only snow. A roaring fire soon knit itself together from scattered sticks and fallen logs, and they both sat down across from each other. “So. Tell me more about your family.” Medic crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, leaning forward. 

 

    Now  _ that _ was something Mikhail could use to get his mind off of Medic. “I have three sisters and a mother. The oldest is Zhanna; she is headstrong and also physically strong. The middle is Yana, creative and smart. And the youngest, Bronislavia. I have been away from home for quite a while and have not spent much time with her. From what I remember, she is a leader and has an ability to make people like her quite easily. When I was young, my father was killed. He spoke out against the leaders of my mother country and was executed. My mother is still alive and well. She cooks bear so wonderfully it tastes as if you have been starving for years and it is your first meal.”

 

    “ _ Bear _ meat?” Medic’s eyes grew wide behind his spectacles. “I’ve never had any such thing before.” Aha. Definitely a nobleman, then. What sort of everyday traveler had never tasted even a lick of bear? Suddenly, Medic’s eyes narrowed and he slid off the log, bent low to the ground. He gestured to Mikhail with a finger to his lips and a pointed glare, and his gaze darted back and forth, searching for some imaginary danger. Even through all of this movement, the cloak remained impossibly closed. 

 

    “Yeah, he seems to be close,” a disembodied voice with an accent that rang of Fae cut through the wood, “Madoc said we’d find him with some human he’d be using for cover. You think that’s them?”

 

    “Most definitely. Look, he’s listening to us.”

 

     And then the speech stopped. Mikhail looked to where Medic should have been, though whether for guidance, reassurance, or merely just to make sure he was still present in the earthly plane he didn’t know. And yet, he was gone. From above came a cackle. 

    Medic hung in the air as if walking on glass, holding a bloody old bonesaw. Mikhail had seen a weapon like that once before when his father needed his arm amputated. His face twisted into a grotesque facsimile of a smile, Medic leered down into the woods where, presumably, the disembodied voices had come. “Why don’t you come out and join me, Astrus, Meliodas? The more the merrier.” His accent from an indiscernible place seemed to grow more muddled, the usually crisp words falling flat. Strange, really, how his more human flaws only came out when he was so decidedly inhuman that Mikhail wasn’t sure if he was having a fever dream or not. 

 

    A rustling in the bushes, then a pause, and there were two… men(?) before Medic. Their pointed ears, otherworldly eyes, and towering stag horns all gave away their identity. Mikhail scoffed at his own internal monologue.  _ As if the accent hadn’t already _ . One was short and skinny, the other tall and barrel-chested, but neither anywhere near Mikhail’s own shape. “So, you know the drill. You come back with us in chains to the Unseelie Court, your little… pet… goes on with his life, and everyone’s happy. Or, we fight, we win, and you both die painfully.” The short one seemed to do all the talking. 

 

    “Misha,” his heart leapt. Medic had never called him that before! “stand behind me,” and then his attention returned to the two Fae in front of them. “Astrus, I see you’re still as baby-faced as ever. And Meliodas, still thinking with your biceps instead of your brain, I see.” 

 

    “Look, man, can you cut the crap? It’s cold here, my horns are brittle enough to snap off, and Meliodas won’t stop trying to ambush raccoons he sees.”

 

    “I’d be able to ambush them a lot more effectively if your doe ass’d stay quiet, maggot.”

 

    “Oh, I’m the doe? You’re the one without your horns, dumbass!”

 

    “Don’t you dare bring the Does into this! I’ll have you know we are  _ steeped _ in warrior tradition! We have fought for the Seelie Court for six thousand-” 

 

    “Enough!” Medic shouted. That was the first time Mikhail had ever heard him raise his voice. And then it clicked.  _ His magic. The accent. Why these Fae had come spouting nonsense to hunt him down.  _ Medic was Fae! Still he hung in the sky and gazed down below, a god watching over his worshippers. “Do you know why I was exiled in the first place?” he drifted down to the short one, who Mikhail assumed was named Astrus, and was almost close enough to kiss him if he so desired, “I have seen beautiful, terrible, things. I have  _ done _ beautiful, terrible, things, you half-wit. I have done so much that even your precious Unseelie Court, home of the thieves and the evildoers, couldn’t stand the sight of me.” With every word he pushed Astrus and backed him further against the trees.

 

    Astrus looked about ready to piss himself. All of the fight in him had left and he was whiter than the snow surrounding him. Medic paused He drifted back towards Mikhail and spoke again, softly this time. One hand was on the ribbon that held his cloak shut. “Close your eyes and do not open them until I say so.”

 

    Terrified, Mikhail nodded. Who was Medic to travel with him? What had this Fae wanted with a mortal? He couldn’t even find it in himself to be excited when the gentle sound of ribbon sliding against ribbon reached him, barely audible. Numbly he felt the fabric drift down and cover him like a sheet. No, no, no! He was missing it! His only chance to find out what Medic looked like! For a moment, Mikhail considered ripping off the white shift and opening his eyes to the world, taking in whatever was surely waiting for him with all of the vigor of a man possessed. But then Medic spoke again. “I think I’ll start with your horns,’ he said, and his tone could only be described as a purr. Low and sadistic, the glee in the words carved a hole in the bottom of Mikhail’s stomach. 

 

    One snap, then a girly scream, then another. Two... objects landed in the snow with a crunch. Mikhail didn’t want to think too hard about what they were. “I’ve been looking forward to testing this out,” Maniacal laughter clawed its way into the world, and despair filled the hole Medic had already made in him as the air grew colder still. Mikhail could almost picture the numbers on the mercury thermometer ticking down, down, down, until they hit zero. Meliodas, if that even was the other Fae’s name, yelled out a bizarre battle cry of “Bilbo Baggins!” and was swiftly silenced. Mikhail could hear Astrus’s soft, defeated, moans even through the fresh snow that he hadn’t noticed falling. It landed on the cloak and melted to frigid water on the fabric, frostburning his bare scalp. Still, he did not dare remove it. 

 

    “That was much easier than I hoped it would be. Who does Hecate think she is, sending you thoughtless heathens? I thought I’d at least warrant her sending Paladrin. This is a case of gross underestimation. And now, the fun part.” Medic started to laugh again. It started as a snicker, then bubbled forth from his throat until it destroyed the air in two as a full-blown evil cackle. Sickening cracks rang through the woods, as if something was tearing apart bodies. But how could that be?

 

    And then the screaming began. “Shit, shit, shit, shit! Oh, god! My blood! What the hell, what the hell, what th-aaaaagh!” The coherent words and pleads ended there for Astrus, as did his life. 

 

    “Pathetic. Meliodas, will you prove to be any more entertaining?”

 

    No, he did not. Meliodas’s vocal chords seemed to give out after a few minutes of heartrending screaming. At first, he struggled bravely and quite audibly against an unseen force, but the fight died with him. 

 

    The cloak over Mikhail was ripped away, and he shivered at the sudden chill in the air. After a pause, Medic spoke, “It is safe to open your eyes, Misha.” Mikhail was a bit afraid of what he would see. He followed the instructions and nearly threw up.

 

    Red. Red as far as the eye could see surrounding him. At his feet were what he was afraid of seeing: two pronged stag horns. They must have been snapped off. In the snow were two mangled corpses, still warm, saturating and melting the snow beneath them. Had Mikhail not known what they had been mere minutes before, he would have assumed some animal had dragged its prey to this clearing and eaten its fill. He dared not glance over at Medic, not quite afraid of what he might see but certainly not willing to hasten it. Until Medic was in front of him in the blink of an eye, Mikhail was doing a pretty good job of ignoring him. 

 

    “Are you quite all right?” he asked, feigning concern. Disgusting. How dare he pretend to be an innocent healer after the horrors he had surely just wrought? His glasses were fogged with red, and he wiped them on his cloak. The substance disappeared from his glasses but dared not stain the fabric. 

 

    “...Yes,” Mikhail replied, his grip on the Common language far too weak to voice his true opinions, “Are you?” Civility was the best course of action here. He’d hate to be the next corpse lying on the ground today.

 

    “Thank you for your concern. Yes, I am. You heard the fight, did you not? You of all people should know that I am certainly all right. My foes, on the other hand, well… you have two functioning eyes,” Medic replied, curt but still smug through his irritation. Pride in murder; despicable. “Shall we move away from this site of death and set up camp somewhere else?” 

 

    Mikhail didn’t grace that question with a response and instead speedwalked further into the woods. Further away from Medic. Like usual, he didn’t hear Medic following him, but when he looked back, there he was. 

 

\-----

 

    Mikhail sat by the campfire, his gaze upon the sleeping form of Medic. He’d fallen asleep outside of his tent.  _ Should I move him?  _ he thought, then realized,  _ No, that would require touching him. After what I have heard today I would like nothing less.  _

 

    The firelight flickered across Medic’s glasses, and he moved to roll over in his sleep. Mikhail’s hands flew up to his face, almost in slow motion, as the cloak shifted away from the (rather attractive) killer’s body. Through his fingers he watched in grotesque curiosity.

 

    Underneath the elusive mantle was nothing more than the body of a man.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes these things happen...


End file.
